Love is Black and White
by Fayola
Summary: As my world revolves around Jazz and Prowl, this is dedicated solely to them. Its my little nesting place for all those tidbits that don't want to grow up and become real stories. Range of genres, ratings, and verses, none of which pretend to have a plot.
1. Dancing

Title: Dancing  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: implied mech-smex  
Summary: Prowl had a very different take on what proper celebration dictated… well, not _too_ different.  
Notes: It's finally happened. I have enough random drabbles to create a little nesting place for them. Enjoy the first installment!

* * *

Intently focusing on the report in his hand, Prowl almost didn't hear the music blasting from Jazz's quarters as he passed. The standard volume level was higher than usual, though – Jazz's mission must have gone exceptionally well – so Prowl was alerted to the fact that the little saboteur had returned.

Smiling to himself, (discretely, lest anybot else see), Prowl paused his exodus to Prime's office – the report could wait; his mate was back! – and opened the door.

The blast of sound that hit him was enough to knock his audio receptors offline. His optics nearly followed at the sight of lover, too.

"Jazz, what in Primus's name are you doing?"

"Dancing!" was the cheerful answer, but "fritzing out" was closer to anything Prowl would have guessed. No part of his sleek form seemed to be motionless – jumping, jiving, shaking, wriggling, leaping.

His mission must have gone _very_ well.

Prowl folded his arms across his chest, bringing one hand up to cover his mouth, trying to look like he was thinking but in actuality covering the smile that was twitching at the corners of his lip components. Once he thought himself suitably contained, he moved the hand away to – very loudly, to be heard over the music, and with only minor sincerity –scold his mate.

"Jazz, you do realize that I would be well within my rights as your commanding officer to put you in the brig for violating so many rules, among them disturbing the peace, failure to report to your superiors for proper debriefing upon returning t-OOO – ! "

His last word was turned into a bit of an invective as he was unexpectedly seized by the wrist and jerked into the room, report flying from his hand.

"So lock me up, cop-bot!" Jazz dared him with a lecherous grin. "Cuff me! I've been a baaaaad mech!"

He had not ceased to move, but his dancing turned from the spastic, energetic jive to a decidedly sultry and alluring invitation. Hips pressed firmly against those of his mate's, he swayed and bobbed from side to side. One hand was cupping his aft, forcing Prowl to move along with him, while the other reached behind him for the control panel and shut the door.

Fortunately, no bot was in the corridor to witness anything. Even when Prime _did_ wander by a few breems later in search of Prowl, wondering where he'd disappeared to, all he could hear from within Jazz's quarters was the continuous blasting of music.

_All for the best,_ he mused to himself, smiling absently as he bent to pick up the report pad from the floor and headed back to his office.


	2. Promises

Title: Promises  
Rating: G  
Warnings: a little sad :(  
Universe: 2007 movie  
Summary: Not even death can stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.  
Notes: reviews make for a happy authress!

* * *

In that place between the shutting down of systems and recharge, he met him.

Slender arm wrapping about his middle, he shuttered his optics as he heard his lover croon into his audio receptor, "Hiya, Prowler."

"Hello, Jazz."

The little saboteur wriggled on the berth to get closer to his mate. "I miss ya, y'know."

"I miss you too, Jazzy."

The smaller mech let out a short bark of laughter. "Leave to you to wait till I'm good 'n dead 'fore y'll use my nickname out loud."

Prowl didn't respond, simply enjoyed the warmth of his mate pressed up against his back, the feel of his clever hands lightly caressing his doorwings, the sound of his sweet voice in his audios.

"It hurts, Jazzy."

A soft, sad sigh through his vents. "I know, Prowl. Believe me, I know."

He wanted to turn around, to look his sweet lover in the optics, but he didn't dare, fearing any movement would break the magic and, once again, his Jazz would be taken away. He shuttered his optics, repressing a shudder of both apprehension and pleasure, as Jazz's hands had moving to the exposed wiring in his hip. Primus, how he missed him.

"Why did you have to leave me, Jazzy?"

The little mech sighed again. "Wasn't really the plan."

"You promised." There was a hint of a whine to his words.

"I did," Jazz agreed sadly.

"You promised me you would be here, waiting." His spark gave a painful clench at the thought of what it almost had, but now would never know. "You promised me forever."

"I know," Jazz said, voice hardly more than a whisper, lip components pressed up next to his lover's audio. "I know I did… and we'll have it."

A hand moved up to Prowl's faceplates, a single digit wiping away tears he was not aware had fallen. He turned his head into the hand, pressing a kiss against it. Jazz stroked his cheek once more before pulling away.

"Recharge, now," he said soothingly, leaning over to kiss the bright red chevron adorning Prowl's helm. "Recharge. I promise… everything will be better in the morning."

And, with a wave of calm settling over him, blanketing him in a warmth to replace that of his vanishing lover's, recharge he did.

Come morning, no one could give a reason for his passing. There was just no medical term for a broken spark.


	3. Bedroom Optics

Title: Bedroom Optics  
Rating: G for Good God, what _was_ I thinking?  
Warnings: a rampant imagination?  
Universe: G1  
Notes: Written in about 5 minutes while I was supposed to be taking notes on camber, toe, and caster in my auto shop class. (Doesn't my teacher know Prowl and Jazz are so much more fun than tire alignment?) I'm not very happy with this one, but I'm posting it anyways! Review!

* * *

As a rule, Prowl was not a mech to doubt himself. It just wasn't in his programming to second guess. Not to mention his job as tactician depended upon his absolute certainty. And until now, such had never posed a problem.

Now, here he was, after a single off-hand comment from Sideswipe, having a near panic attack. It had most likely been said in jest, but it struck Prowl so profoundly he could think of little else, no matter how hard he tried. His logic processor was threatening to lock up from trying to make sense of it.

He didn't know what to do, what to think anymore. But one thing was certain: he had to find some sort of concluding answer, some sort of closure, no matter the direction such took. As he was going nowhere but circles on his own, he – after much denial and lamentation – decided he must confide his woes in somebot. And there was only one mech with whom he trusted enough to do so.

"Jazz, would you say I have bedroom optics?"

Jazz nearly choked on his energon.

"Say what now?" he coughed, thinking perhaps he had misunderstood. Primus, please let him have misunderstood.

"My optics. Si – somebot said I had bedroom optics."

He was being completely serious, that much Jazz could tell. He was leaning slightly forward, hands braced on the table between him and Jazz, pinning the saboteur with an earnest look. Jazz considered pinching himself to see if he really was functioning and not in recharge. Just what the slag had gotten into his friend to make him entertain such a subject? And what had possessed him to breach the topic with him, in the middle of the rec room nonetheless? (True, the only other occupants were Hound and Mirage, and they seemed pretty occupied in the back corner, but still!)

Furthermore, what exactly was he supposed to say to such an inquiry? That Prowl's optics were windows to the ardor and emotion within the outwardly stoic mech? That his gaze was so passionate and fiery it made Jazz want to overload on the spot? That every time their gazes met, it took every ounce of self control he had not to jump his friend and snog him senseless?

So caught up in trying to form some coherent answer (and keep his errant thoughts from running wild and forcing his cooling fans on), he belatedly realized his mouth was hanging open and his energon still hung midair in his motionless hand. Setting down the latter and closing the former, he cleared his intakes.

"Well…" (Frag it all, the slagger wouldn't stop staring at him! Was he so completely unaware of what it did to him?!) "Uh… sure. I guess so."

Innocently unaware of the pains that Jazz had gone through to come up with such a nonchalant answer, Prowl straightened, expression shifting to one of satisfaction.

"Thank you, Jazz," he said somberly, nodding once to the saboteur. Jazz attempted to respond, found his vocal processor to be malfunctioning, and settled for a return nod.

Without further ado, Prowl turned on his heel and marched out of the rec room. Jazz sat motionless, watching him go. After a long moment of sitting in a stupor, he regained his senses, picked up his nearly-forgotten cube of energon, and downed it in a single gulp, wondering just why he was so attracted to the strange tactician.


	4. Motivation

Title: Motivation  
Rating: Mature  
Warnings: some poorly written smut, mech kissy-kissy goodness  
Universe: TF: Animated  
Summary: Strange the things that motivate some of us…  
Notes: To understand what this drabble is talking about, one has to have carefully watched episodes 4 and 27, particularly when in Prowl's room.

* * *

It was a warm summer afternoon, the sunlight streaming softly through the thick canopy of leaves, the only barrier that stood between the outside world and Prowl's room. A little bluebird, tired from flight, had taken perch on one of the lower branches of the tree. It had just finished preening itself and cleaning its feathers, just about to slip away into slumber with its head under its wing, when there came the sudden screeching crash of metal upon metal.

Highly startled, the bird fled from its perch as fast as its frightened little wings could take it.

Had Prowl not currently glossa tangled with the wild one of Jazz's, he would have been quite upset to know he'd scared away the little organic.

The obstruction that was the door to Prowl's room was thrown open, hurriedly slammed back down after the tangle of two mechs stumbled their way across the threshold. It was hard to tell one from the other – they were a blur of black, gold, and white armor, groping and stroking as much of the other as they could reach.

Jazz grunted as he was slammed up against a wall by the smaller mech. He opened his mouth to comment amusedly about underestimating his strength when riled up, but it was instead seized by the lip components of Prowl. The white bot let out a long, low moan as their glossas once more intertwined, each mapping out the contours of the others mouth, memorizing the delicious feel.

Using his position of control over Jazz, Prowl pinned him to the wall with his body, pressing one knee against the supporting structure in the space between Jazz's legs, his upper thigh firmly meeting the plating where taller bot's legs joined.

Jazz gasped at the touch, engine revving as he writhed about, grinding deeper into the black and gold ninja-bot's leg. Not to be outdone, his hands roamed from Prowl's shoulders, one to cup his aft, the other to finger a data port around his midriff. Prowl arched his back with a sharp gasp of his intakes, pulling his lip components away from Jazz's neck cables to throw back his head and moan in ecstasy. Jazz was about to use the small break to his advantage and tackle the other mech to the floor, straddle him, and see what other ports would cause the same reaction, but the sight of something on the wall opposite them brought him to a dead halt, instantly sobering him.

"Prowl, what in the name of the All-Spark is _that_?"

Prowl, visor glowing a deep blue from lust, hazily glared up at Jazz. He did not appreciate the sudden stop to their activities.

"What?"

Speechless, Jazz merely pointed. Prowl followed along the length of the digit, optics coming to rest on the object in question. Faceplates warming in embarrassment, he looked away, muttering, "It's nothing."

"Don' look like nothin' t' me." The Elite Guard member was smiling broadly now. He pushed away from the wall, disengaging himself from Prowl's arms, and walked across the length of the room to the alleged Nothing.

It was in fact a very large human poster, adorned with a drawing of a white – oh, what were they called? Ah, kitty-cats – of a white kitty-cat. It had an expression of determination painted upon its little furry face. The artist had seen fit to torture the poor creature by dangling it from a very high tree branch, onto which it was gripping with its claws for dear lifecycle. Above the spectacle were boldly written the words "Keep your chin up!"

"Wow, Prowl," Jazz said in what he hoped was a neutral voice, trying desperately to keep the large smile that was threatening to break across his faceplates at bay. "That's… that's really… _inspiring_."

He turned around, his attempt at a neutral expression finally cracking at the sight of the scowling gold and black ninjabot. He burst into laughter.

"It was a gift from Sari," Prowl grumped, voice a bit elevated so he could be heard over Jazz's hysteric giggling. "She thought it a considerate gesture, as I particularly admire the stealth and grace of cats." He paused, then added as an afterthought, "She did mention something about 'hanging in there' when she gave it to me, though."

Jazz doubled over, gasping for air. Tears of clear coolant were beginning to leak from beneath his visor. Prowl's scowl deepened.

"It's not _that_ funny!" he exclaimed.

Jazz could not respond, intakes still heaving from laughter. After a moment, though, he composed himself, straightening up and wiping his faceplates with a final, low chuckle.

"Sorry," he said, still grinning widely. "I just didn' pin you as the femmish kind o' mech, keepin' pictures o' kitty-cats an' whatnot."

"It doesn't make me femmish to appreciate a gift from a friend," Prowl said defensively, obviously still a little put out. Jazz gave another low chuckle as he crossed the room once more, back into Prowl's reach.

"Course not," he said condescendingly, wrapping his arms around the smaller ninjabot and burying his faceplates in his lover's neck. "Now… just where did we leave off?"

"I believe you were picking up the remainder of your hacked-off interface cable and leaving my quarters."

Jazz smiled fondly into Prowl's neck. "Fine, you ain't femmish. Mind if we get back ta business, though? Sentinel's gonna send out a search party soon."

"Mmm, and we wouldn't want a repeat of last time, now would we?" Prowl agreed, allowing Jazz to begin peppering his neck with feather-light kisses.

"Can ya just do me just one solid, though?"

"What's that?"

"Can ya take down the kitty-cat? I dunno if I can overload you with it watching."


	5. Bored

Title: Bored  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: naughty mechs who don't pay attention when they should  
Universe: G1  
Summary: Even Jazz knew that boredom was the equivalent to danger.  
Notes: Yet another little snippit, yet again written during my auto shop class. I may have transmitted a little of my own emotion into this one. Tires is just such a boring unit!

* * *

Jazz was, without a doubt, bored.

For the past three joors, he had been shut up in a conference room with the rest of the senior staff in one of – in his opinion – the longest, most outrageously dull meetings since the formation of the Autobots. He had long since ceased to pretend to be listening and sat in a dazed stupor that was bordering on recharge. He sat slumped forward in his chair, helm resting heavily in one hand, propped up by his elbow, mouthplates partially open. His free hand was idly doodling little pictures on the data pad that held the meeting's itinerary instead of taking notes as he should have been.

It was as he was drawing a crown of daisies around Megatron's helm that he felt a flicker of irritation. Since it obviously wasn't his own – he had no qualms about defiling the Decepticon leader's image with girlie vegetation – he lifted his head to glance at his bondmate. Finding his seat empty, he turned his visor toward the head of the table, surprised to see him _still_ giving his report. (Primus, he thought, it had already been – he checked his internal chronometer – oh. A quarter of a joor. Frag, this meeting just wouldn't end!)

Another small spurt of irritation flickered through their bond. Redirected, Jazz looked back at Prowl, who was doing a very good job of pretending his mate didn't exist. He'd set up the block against their bond – as he always did while on duty, as Jazz could get a little… wayward – with renewed vigor. Jazz poked at it tentatively; he was met with a proverbial brick wall.

The saboteur frowned. He did not like being ignored. (He chose to overlook the fact that he had just been ignoring his mate in turn.) He poked at the block again, trying to find a crack somewhere along the tactician's defenses. But, like always, Prowl had outdone himself. He was impenetrable.

Jazz was no quitter, though. He'd just have to try a different tactic.

"Our last attack was a devastating blow to our forces. Fortunately, we were able to give nearly as good as we received, and Starscream and his trine were put out of – yes Jazz?"

Jazz lowered his hand, grinning broadly as he asked, "Yeah, last night when you said Primus himself couldn't be better at interfacin' than me, did ya mean it or was that just the impending overload getting' to yer CPU?"

There came snorting and the grinding of gears of withheld laughter from around the table. Wheeljack, despite already having a battle mask to cover his lip components, clapped his hands to his faceplates to hide his mirth. Ironhide actually had to duck beneath the table to compose himself Ratchet was simply staring intently at Prowl, giddily awaiting the tactician's response.

Prowl's expression was priceless. Torn between mortification, surprise, and fury, he looked like he had a system's block somewhere in his exhaust system. He stood there, motionless, for so long, Jazz wondered if he had managed to freeze up his battle computer. Again.

Finally, he spoke.

"Starscream and his trine were put out of commission for quite a while. We do not know if they have managed repairs yet, but there have been no reports of stolen materials, suggesting they …"

It seemed that his logic center had booted up again and picked up right where he left off. Whether the complete ignoring of Jazz's comment was intentional or not, he did not know. His systems might have actually fried so badly that it automatically erased itself from his memory chips.

Jazz slumped back in his seat, arms folded across his bumper and lip components set in a pretty little pout. He'd been hoping for more than that!

With a heavy sigh through his vents, he rested his head back on his hand, dragged his data pad towards him, and resumed his doodling, this time drawing Starscream prancing about in a human dress. It was going to be a long meeting.


	6. Dance

Title: Dance  
Rating: G  
Warnings: ANGST!  
Summary: He tried, he really did. He just didn't know how to dance anymore without Jazz there to lead him.  
Notes: A very short, very sad little drabble taken from the infamous song meme.

* * *

Empty.

That's all he could feel – emptiness. Like his wiring and gears had been physically ripped from him and he was nothing more than a hollow shell. He could barely even feel the pain anymore.

This had been why they hadn't bonded; Prime needed them both if the war was to be won. To have one of them die would be a tragic blow, but losing both was unthinkable. And yet here he was, hardly any better off than his lost mate, wallowing in his misery and emptiness, and doing no good for the cause he'd once held so near and dear, held almost –

Prowl shuttered his optics tightly, unable to bring himself to finish the thought.

-- almost more dearly than his beloved mate.

And now both were gone, and he was not far from the same fate.

This was not how Jazz wanted him to be living, that much he knew. Jazz was never one to let the sorrows of life keep him from living. Prowl had always envied the way Jazz had danced around all the things that brought him down. In the blessed time he'd had with him, Jazz had begun to teach him to dance as well, to keep on going when he stumbled. And even when he missed a step, Jazz had been there to catch him and lead him on.

Now, no one was there to catch him.

He couldn't bring himself to dance anymore.


	7. Midnight Visits

Title: Midnight Visits  
Rating: G  
Warnings: little hints of a mech-crush  
Universe: G1  
Notes: Another little extrapolation of my life. I got a call from a friend about a month ago, and it wasn't until about an hour into the conversation that I realized she didn't have a reason for calling and was talking just to talk. XD I'm as big a social retard as Prowl sometimes.

* * *

He sat alone in his office, the familiar and comforting sound of his fingers clacking against the keyboard the only thing permeating the heavy stillness about him. The hour was late, according to Earth's measurement of time, and he was the only bot still up and about. Everybot else had readily adopted the idea of a set time for recharge – there was no "day" or "night" on Cybertron, just the continuous orn – and were all tucked into their respective quarters. Prowl, however, forever on duty, loathed the idea of leaving the Ark completely vulnerable and bestowed it upon himself to be the night watch. (It was not as if he or anybot really _needed_ to recharge every few joors. It would be Earth _weeks_ before Prowl really needed to rest.)

He did not mind the solitude. In fact, he rather enjoyed it, especially after spending all day with bots like Sideswipe and Jazz. He was a reserved mech, not much of a socializer. He preferred to keep to himself – and wished a few of the others would do him the same courtesy.

So there he sat at two in the morning, writing a report on Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's latest prank, absolutely content to be the only bot online.

Or so he presumed.

Prowl looked up from his report, facial plates crinkling in a look of confusion. What was that sound? He listened intently, but hearing nothing, he turned his attentions back to his work.

Just as he was about to start typing again, it came again – a low buzzing noise, more than once this time.

It took him nearly half a breem to realize it was his door chime.

Perhaps he _did _need some rest.

"Come in." It came out as a bit of a question. He had no idea who would feel the need to bother him in the middle of the night, nor what important matter required his immediate assistance.

The door cycled open to reveal Jazz, grinning broadly and holding what looked to be -- if what he'd confiscated thus far was anything to judge it upon -- a large cube of the Twins' infamous high grade.

"'Bout time," he said merrily, sauntering into the room. "You just ignorin' bots now, or did you ferget what yer door chime sounded like?"

"Hn," Prowl grunted, looking hurriedly at his computer screen, hoping Jazz was just being facetious. He started in surprise when the cube of high grade (the fumes coming off it could now leave no doubt as to what it was) was placed sharply on the table in front of him. He looked up at Jazz, mildly perplexed.

"Extorted that from the Twins earlier this orn," he said with a smug little smirk. "Thought you could use a li'l pick-me-up."

"Jazz, I can't take this," Prowl said, pushing the cube to the side.

"Sure ya can. I got loads more."

"No, I – " Prowl blinked. "You have… how did you get them t – never mind. I'm on duty, Jazz."

The saboteur snorted, a habit he had picked up while on this planet, one Prowl thought very unbecoming.

"Prowlie, you been on duty ever since we woke up on this little mudball." Jazz pushed the cube back into the tactician's direct line of focus. "Loosen up a little."

Prowl cycled air through his vents in a sigh, a little habit of his own he'd learned from Spike and his father. This was typical Jazz behavior. At least once every deca-orn, an attempt to get Prowl to "loosen up" was made – an invitation to get some energon together here, an offer to play a strategy game there. While something as extravagant as high grade had never been offered before, it did not come as that great of a surprise to Prowl. Sooner or later, Jazz was bound to, as the humans said, pull out the big guns.

Prowl would have been lying to himself if he said he weren't tempted by the offer in the slightest bit, but his sense of duty – whether self appointed or not – prevailed in the end. As to not hurt the saboteur's feelings – or to at least make him think he'd won a round of this ever-playing game they seemed to have and thus give him leave to go – Prowl stood with the cube in his hand.

"Perhaps after my shift," he said truthfully, turning to place the cube in a cabinet behind him. "Thank you."

He turned back to his desk, fully expecting to see Jazz on his way out the door, mission accomplished. What he did _not_ expect – nor particularly like – was to see the saboteur comfortably sitting on a corner of his desk, hands folded in his lap and smiling placidly. (He had to force his optics not to linger on the smooth thigh that was running along the edge of the desk and supporting Jazz's weight.)

Confused as to what to do – his opening had been enough to warrant an exit, hadn't it? And if he sat down now, wouldn't that just be an invitation for Jazz to stay? – he simply stood there for a breem or two, staring stupidly. Jazz stared back, still smiling politely.

Still rather befuddled, Prowl finally sat down, optics never leaving the visor of his black and white counterpart. He felt as though he should say something, but, unable to conjure anything to his CPU, he merely turned back to his report and resumed typing – slowly at first, as it was rather strange to have somebot watching, but eventually picking up to his normal pace.

"I saw yer not scheduled for a duty shift tomorrow."

Prowl paused, momentarily taken aback. "That's right."

"Me neither."

"How convenient," Prowl mused, resuming his much-interrupted report.

"Ain't it just?" Jazz snickered. "But coincidence aside, I got this human game I wanna try out wit' ya. Ever heard of chess?"

"Spike has mentioned it to me once or twice, yes."

"He says y'll like it."

"Hm."

"I had 'im order a set fer us – special made, o' course."

"Of course."

"Just came in last night."

"The conveniences continue."

"Yer funny. Everybot says yer a stick in the slag, but you really know how to make a mech laugh. You should be like this more often."

"I'll take it into consideration," Prowl said dryly, irritation and bemusement bringing him to, once again, pause his work and look up at the other black and white mech. "Jazz, is there any particular reason for your visit?"

Jazz merely smiled. "Nope."

The bluntness of the statement took Prowl aback. He shuttered his optics a few times in surprise.

"None?"

"Jus' wanted some company."

Prowl snorted, then grimaced at the fact he'd done so. "And you chose me?"

Another smile. "You make me laugh."

Prowl shook his helm, once again resuming typing as he said, "I'd say you have a few screws loose, but you'd take that as a compliment."

"You know me too well. So… chess. You wanna play?"

"Sure, Jazz." Prowl restrained himself from rolling his optics. "I'll play your game."


	8. Figs

Title: Figs  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: some crude, derogatory language  
Universe: 2007 movie  
Summary: Jazz had spent so many joors trying to explain his relationship with Prowl to the Humans, only to learn that they can sum it up in one word!  
Author's Notes: Um... I really don't know how to explain this. Wait, yes I do: Dengue Fever. (Also known as Bonecrusher Fever. Not as fun as it sounds, I can assure you.) SORRY.

* * *

Prowl was in his office, intently working away at the large stack of data pads that had accumulated on his desk during his recent stint in the med bay, when his bondmate burst through the door, looking rather excited.

"Prowl, we're figs!

Suddenly unable to focus on the inventory report in his hand, he looked up at his mate, faceplates a picture of confusion.

"We're what?"

"Figs!" Jazz repeated merrily, plopping down into the empty seat before Prowl's desk. "I was just talkin' ta Sam an' Micky – they was introducing me t' their buddy Miles. An' I was askin' Micky how she thought I might be able t' pry ya outta yer office, an' Miles asked who ya were, so Sam told him we was together, an' here I thought I was gonna hafta explain all about sparkmates _again, _but he jus' kinda –"

"Do you have a point, Jazz?" Prowl interrupted quickly, mildly irked.

"Yeah!" the little saboteur exclaimed. He stood abruptly, putting his hands on the desk before him and leaning forward until his overly-excited faceplates were right up in front of Prowl's. "Miles actually got it! He's like, 'So the new friends you've been ditching me for are not only giant alien robots, they're figs as well?', an' Sam was like, 'Well, kinda', and Miles is like, 'That's cool, man'!"

Jazz had said this all in a very long, very excited stream, making it sound like one word. It took Prowl a moment of processing to decipher what had been said to him. Even after this, though, he was still very confused, and stared up at his bondmate with expression portraying such.

"We're figs!" Jazz exclaimed again. He was apparently very enthralled at having found a quick and simple way of describing their relationship to the curious humans in a way that they would easily understand.

Prowl, however, still did _not_ understand. And when he quickly looked up the term on the World Wide Web, his confusion grew. How did a type of fruit describe their relationship?

"Are you sure he said _fig_, Jazz?" he questioned his mate.

The saboteur's grin gave way to a look of contemplation as Prowl data-burst him the definition of the word he had so giddily been repeating.

"I thought it was fig," he said, mouth screwing into a little frown as he thought. "Mighta been fog… fag, maybe? Yeah! Yeah, fag!"

Prowl looked it up.

"Oh. Yes, that makes more sense."

* * *

As cool as his kids – and now grandkids – thought his job to be, John Keller really did loathe his responsibilities at times. Even now, working with the Autobots, he found himself wishing he had retired when reelection time had come around. (The glamour of working with an alien species had worn off after he realized they could be frighteningly similar to humans.)

But he had not retired, and so here he sat in a giant conference room in Autobot headquarters, developing a rather large migraine as he tried to decide the best way to calm down the overly-excited vice president, whom had just been introduced to Optimus Prime.

"Mr. McKendrick," Keller said loudly over the vice president's rantings. "If you could please stop all that shouting – we're not going to die."

Behind him, he could hear Captain Lennox and Sergeant Epps snickering. As Mr. McKendrick was not their responsibility – no matter how hard Keller had tried to pawn him off on them – they were finding the episode to be rather entertaining. Keller, however, was wishing one of their new-found allies would come storming into the room and "accidentally" squish the vice president. Perhaps if he called them on his cell – he had their comm frequencies on his speed dial – and really begged and pleaded, one of them would put him out of his misery. Jazz was pleasant and accommodating and might do it. Or Ironhide and Ratchet. They were always trying to make a game out of it, see how many Humans they could hover over and pretend to stomp on before Optimus caught them and ordered them to stop. Perhaps they wouldn't mind actually stepping on one.

As it turned out, though, such drastic measures were not needed. It took the vice president just twenty minutes, a cup of coffee, and a few Advil to calm down. After taking a couple Advil himself, Keller wasn't feeling so bad either.

It was just as the painkillers were kicking in that Jazz and Prowl decided to walk into the room.

"'Sup homies!" Jazz called to Lennox and Epps, who waved to him in return. "How's it hangin'?"

Keller tensed, expecting another panicked tirade from McKendrick, but was pleasantly surprised to see him simply stare up in awe at the second and third in command. Prowl, in turn, gazed politely back. After exchanging more slangy pleasantries with the soldiers behind Keller, Jazz noticed the stranger sitting at the human sized conference table.

"What up?" he greeted with a grin.

"Mr. McKendrick," Keller said, gesturing to the pair of Autobots. "This is Prowl, the Autobots' tactician and second in command, and the 'homie' standing next to him is Jazz, third in command and head of Special Ops."

McKendrick nodded vaguely, mouth partially open. He seemed to have been momentarily struck dumb.

"Greetings," Prowl said, nodding sagely.

"We're fags!" Jazz added proudly, throwing an arm about Prowl's middle.

McKendrick's look of awe quickly transformed into one of confused shock. He glanced between Jazz and Prowl, who sported looks of open pride and slight apprehension respectively, then to Keller, who had thrown off his glasses and buried his face in his hands, then back to the robots before him.

"Uh – well…" McKendrick stammered, quite unsure how to respond. "That's, uh… my-my nephew's one too."

"Really?" Jazz's grin widened. "Radical!"

At this, Lennox and Epps could stand no more. They burst into hysterics, shouting incoherently through their laughter about gay robots, their lack of tact, and how much money they would pay to see the report McKendrick would give to the president. Keller, not so amused, pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ironhide's comm, intent on ending his career early. Jazz, however, was confused.

"I said it right this time, didn' I?" he asked his mate. "I didn' say figs, did I?"

"No, you said it correctly," Prowl assured him, wondering himself why the term the humans had used themselves brought such amusement to them. Making a note to question Sam about it, he turned and began walking out of the conference room with his mate in tow.

"For now, though," he thought aloud, "I think we should just stick to calling ourselves sparkbonded."


	9. The Autobot Aerial Commander

Title: The Autobot Aerial Commander  
Rating: F for Fluff-tastic!  
Warnings: blood glucose levels may increase from sugary goodness  
Universe: G1, pre-Earth  
Summary: The Autobot tactician and Aerial Commander team up to take on the dreaded Starscream! *dun dun duuuuuuuun!*  
Author's Notes: Bluestreak is the equivalent of about a three-year-old.

* * *

Prowl finished off the report in his hand with a sigh, throwing it back up onto the couch and reaching around for another datapad. He was currently sprawled on the floor of the main room in the apartment he shared with Jazz. He'd been banished from their office by said mate, as he was having a meeting with one of his newest Special Ops members, some snooty little Towers mech by the name of Mirage.

Prowl hadn't minded, though, especially when little Bluestreak had wandered out of his room with an armful of his favorite toys and spread himself out at Prowl's feet. He welcomed the distraction, abandoning the latest security report from Red Alert in favor of his sparkling. (He had, of course, first checked to make sure his mate's guest was not there to witness such before sliding down onto the floor to play with his creation's building blocks.)

It was less than a joor later, though, when the little one had proclaimed himself bored of the toys they were playing with and went off in search of new ones. That had been nearly twenty breems ago, so Prowl could only conclude that his offspring had become distracted with something in his room and forgotten about playing with one of his sires. Feeling only slightly put out, Prowl had returned to his waiting reports.

Having chosen to remain on the floor, he left himself vulnerable to sudden attack, a fact that Bluestreak all too happily exploited.

"YAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

Prowl turned his helm in time to see the look of determination on Bluestreak's faceplates as he launched himself full force at his father before he was bowled over.

Thoroughly pleased with himself, Bluestreak laughed gaily, then shrieked in delight as his father, now flat on his back, lifted him into the air to hover over his chestplates.

"Oh no!" Prowl cried in mock horror. "It's an attack! I'm being pinned by the most terrifying enemy to Autobots and Decepticons alike -- the great and dreaded Starscream!"

He waved his sparkling around, pretending that the little botlet was flying above him, but Blue squirmed in protest.

"No, Fader!" he exclaimed. "I norra 'Cepticon, I's a Autobot!"

"Not a Decepticon, you say?" Prowl said, narrowing his optics suspiciously. "Then what reason have you for knocking over a fellow Autobot, soldier?"

Bluestreak put on the most serious look he could, scowling fiercely as he explained to his father, "I's the Autobot Aerial Commander! I's savin' you from da Seekers!"

Prowl gasped dramatically. "Enemy fire! Well, you'll put a stop to that, now won't you?"

Bluestreak nodded earnestly, then squealed in delight as his father began to move him around in the air again, this time making engine noises with his vocalizer to accompany his "flight".

"After bravely saving the Autobot's head tactician, Aerialbot Bluestreak zooms off to save the Prime himself!" Prowl said, commentating their little game. "Take that, Megatron! Zoomzoomzoom, POW!"

"POW!" Bluestreak repeated, shooting the invisible Decepticon Lord with pretend guns attached to his outstretched arms.

"But what's this?" Prowl gave another dramatic gasp. "Poor Lieutenant Jazz has been cornered by Menasaur! Who will save him?!"

"I'll save you, Daddy!" Blue shouted, leaning forward in a pretend dive. "Bad Menasaur!"

"Bad Menasaur, indeed," Prowl agreed. "But he is no match for the mighty Bluestreak! Wham, zap, boom! He goes down with a mighty cry – 'Aaaaauuugh!'"

Blue, absolutely delighted with his pretend conquests, broke character and started giggling. A smile of his own broke out on Prowl's faceplates.

"And off the amazing Air Commander goes, twisting and turning in the air, wreaking havoc upon any Decepticon foolish enough to stand in his way. Eat scrap, 'Cons!"

"Fader, look! I's Starscweam!" Blue exclaimed, pointing straight ahead.

"Primus above, it is!" Prowl couldn't stop the smile from growing on his faceplates now, feeling the absolute joy Bluestreak was experiencing from the game bleeding through their bond.

"Le's get 'im!" Blue declared.

"Yes, let's," Prowl agreed with a nod. "Off we go, Tactician Prowl and Lieutenant Jazz aiming from below, trying to help their great and mighty Aerial Commander, but it is a futile attempt. The two fliers soar higher into the air – higher, higher! – until they can no longer be seen from the ground. It is Bluestreak's fight now. It is up to him to save the day!"

"Yahaaaa, ya dirty 'Con!" the sparkling growled. "I's our fight, now!"

"In a spectacular show of aerial acrobatics, the two battle across the skies, neither giving an inch, until, suddenly – BLAM! Starscream is hit! He goes down! Bluestreak, ruler of the skies, has emerged victorious!"

"Haha, Screamer, take that!"

"But, just as the Autobot lets his guard down, in charge Skywarp and Thundercracker, Starscream's angry trine mates!"

"Oh no!" Blue squealed.

"Oho, yes!" Prowl affirmed. "Furious at their leader's downfall, they attack! Bluestreak ducks, dodges, and just when he's about to get away – OH NO! HE'S HIT!"

"NOOO!" Bluestreak wailed, rocking back and forth in Prowl's grip as if actually recoiling from a blast.

"It's true! The mighty Bluestreak has been defeated! He plummets towards the ground!" Prowl ground together gears in the back of his vocalizer, simulating an engine stalling, letting Bluestreak fall to the ground in jerky movements in time to his sound affects. "Kaa – kaa –kaa – KABOOM!"

Shrieking in laughter, Blue collapsed onto Prowl's chestplates, his father's arms wrapped around him, one hand stroking his lower back in affection. The usually stoic tactician couldn't help but let loose a laugh of his own, bond filled with nothing but his sparkling's delight – and, of course, his bondmate's amusement.

Craning his neck to look over Bluestreak's doorwings, he saw Jazz, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, an entertained smirk on his faceplates. Prowl, too elated to bother being embarrassed at being caught at play, simply jerked his head to the space on the floor next to him, a silent invitation for the Lieutenant to join him and the now tired Aerial Commander. Smirk widening, Jazz pushed away from the wall and sauntered over, flopping down next to his partner and sparkling gracefully. Alerted by the sound, Bluestreak turned his head.

"Hi, Daddy," he said with a smile.

"Hey there, baby," Jazz responded, reaching out to stroke the youngling as well. "You an' yer father havin' fun?"

"Mmhmm," Blue hummed, nodding in affirmation. He blinked his optics slowly, worn out from laughing so much. "We was playin' Aerial Commander."

"I heard," Jazz chuckled. Glance shifting to his mate, he added, "So did Mirage."

At this, Prowl did feel a little twinge of embarrassment, but he tried not to show it.

"Like I care what that snooty Towers brat thought," he muttered under his vocalizer.

"Course not," Jazz smiled, kissing Prowl's cheek lightly. Then, with a sigh, he off-lined his visor, snuggling closer to his bonded, looking like he was going to follow Bluestreak's example and fall into a light recharge.

Prowl smiled, pressing his lips to his lover's forehead, shuttering his own optics… then opened them almost immediately, glancing to his left at the couch.

Jazz, sensing through their bond that he was thinking about his unfinished reports, suddenly gripped his shoulder and held him down, murmuring sleepily, "Just enjoy th' moment, lover."

Prowl was about to protest, but Bluestreak made a small noise of contentment in recharge and buried his face deeper into his father's neck. Spark melting in its casing, the tactician smiled.

Jazz was right. The reports would be there later.


	10. Pain

Title: Pain  
Universe: G1  
Warnings: may need tissues?  
Summary: How does the spark recover when a piece of itself is lost?  
Notes: A friend lent me a butt-load of cds tonight, among them some Josh Groban. My farm of bunnies really, REALLY like Josh Groban. I'm writing like a madwoman over here. This particular little bit was inspired by Mr. Groban's song Lullaby. I recommend listening to it.

* * *

There was nothing but the pain. No hope for another chance. No guilt that he might have done something wrong. No wonder as to why it had to happen. There was just pain, a sharp stabbing hurt that started at his spark and radiated outwards.

How could anyone live with this agony? How could anyone who experienced such anguish remain online? It was overwhelming, completely and totally debilitating. It consumed him – mentally, emotionally, physically. There was nothing else. He could not function. He had no reason to. He could not even remember why he had wanted to live before. Life – existence – seemed so empty. So meaningless.

"Jazz…"

A voice. So distant. So full of pain. Just like him.

"Jazz," it repeated. "Please… look at me."

His body was sluggish to respond. A gentle hand guided his chin. Dim optics barely registered the blurry form before him. His processors did not immediately recognize who it was, but his spark – what was left of it – knew instantly.

"Prowl," he sobbed. "Prowl, it _hurts_."

Arms, so strong and yet so gentle, wrapped around his shaking form.

"I know, Jazz," he whispered into Jazz's audio. "I know… I feel it too."

They stayed like that – for breems or for joors, it all felt like eternity to Jazz. An endless, pain-filled eternity.

"Jazz." The arms tightened around him. "We can always try again."

Something more than pain arose in him. Anger.

"I don't _want_ to try again!" he shouted into his beloved's chest. "I wanted _him_!"

The arm's tightened still, this time to hold him down. Restrict him from thrashing about, from hitting him.

"I know, Jazz," Prowl soothed, voice still filled with pain, so much pain. "I did too, but Primus wanted –"

"Frag Primus!" Tears, strangely absent through all the pain, began flowing freely now. "What about what _I_ want? I want my sparkling!"

Falling limp in the arms of his sparkbonded, all desire to fight leaving him, he cried. The tears would not stop. Tears for the life that had been extinguished before it had even had a chance to gain a body. Tears for himself and the agony his spark was in. Tears for the mate who shared his pain.

Prowl simply held him, tears of his own falling upon his mate's helm, wishing he could have the sparkling that had been taken away from them. Wishing the pain would leave. But most of all, wishing he had his mate back.


	11. Trouble

Title: Trouble  
Rating: G  
Universe: G1  
Warnings: angry parental units  
Summary: Never again would Prowl doubt Jazz's spurts of intuition.  
Notes: Just a (very) short drabble. Jazz doesn't like the new transfer.

* * *

"I don't like him."

The sudden proclamation was unexpected, especially coming from one so amiable and agreeable as Jazz. Jazz liked _everybody._

"Is there any particular reason as to why?" Prowl inquired curiously, lowing the datapad he had just picked up.

"Jus' somethin' about him," Jazz responded, a small scowl – even more out of place and foreign than his admission to not liking somebot – forming on his faceplates. "I know he's gonna be trouble."

"Well, his file does say he is prone to getting into disagreements with others," Prowl said, picking up another datapad, this one the personnel file of the mech they had just met. "But being a grumpy, anti-social mech doesn't necessarily raise any red flags for me. It's his brother that I'm worried about. The list of rules he's broken is longer than my –"

"No," Jazz interrupted firmly, scowling at the door the mech had just disappeared through. "He's going to be the problem. I can feel it."

"Oh, one of those 'feelings', is it?" Prowl said dryly. "I have no fears for him, then."

"You doubtin' me?" Jazz angrily whirled around to face his bonded.

"Forgive me for not having faith in your intuition," Prowl scoffed, "but the last 'feeling' you had about someone turned out to be completely false. Unless Cliffjumper has changed factions since the last time we spoke?"

Jazz's scowl deepened. "One time, I've been wrong."

"Mm. If you say so."

"You mark my words," Jazz said, waggling a finger in front of Prowl's faceplates. "That Sunstreaker character is going to be the bane of our existence."

Nothing more was said on the matter. Not then, not for vorns. Prowl simply brushed it off as Jazz having a bad orn and thought nothing more of it. As time went on and Sunstreaker spent more and more time in the brig for getting into fights, Prowl did consider him to be a bit of a problem mech, but never did he view him to be the bane of his existence as Jazz so emphatically proclaimed.

Until, of course, that fateful orn when he saw Sunstreaker in the rec room holding hands with Bluestreak.

Prowl glanced at Jazz – who was looking a bit smug beneath his fury – and quickly ran as many simulations as he could of ways to get that infernal mech away from his sparkling.


	12. HookUps

Title: The Great Hook-up Attempt  
Rating: PG  
Universe: 2007 movie  
Warnings: smexy – I mean, jealous Prowl  
Notes: I should really listen to more music. It gets the creative juices flowing so nicely. I'm not sure how, but this one was inspired by The Kings of Leon. (Only a 51 days until their concert! Yay!)

* * *

It was a rather unassuming day – a Wednesday, if Jazz remembered correctly – that found him with no work to do (all his reports had been finished and turned in), no mate to bother (he was out on a patrol with his Human partner), and no particular interest in doing anything. He aimlessly wandered the corridors of the base, hoping something or someone, whether Cybertronian or Human, would catch his attention and give him something to do. Passing by the rec room for the third time, he decided to go in.

After the door swished open and admitted him entrance, Jazz headed over to an energon dispenser. He collapsed onto one of the couches nearby after drawing himself a cube. He cast a half interested optic over the X-Box that lay at the base of a large TV screen, idly wondering if the game inside it was one of his favorites. (Wheeljack had been only too happy to construct game controllers large enough for bots to use, but the consol itself had to remain the same human size, to house the human-sized game discs. To switch out games, a bot would need the help of one of their human allies or a microbot, neither of which Jazz had at the moment.)

The virtual distraction was not required, however, for at that moment, Sam, Mikaela, and Bumblebee chose to join the saboteur in the rec room.

"Hi, Jazz!" the yellow bot greeted cheerfully.

"'Sup, Bee?" Jazz nodded. "Sam, Micky – the little bug been treatin' you good?"

"As always," Mikaela responded as she followed the Camero over to the couch Jazz was occupying. Bee held a hand down, acting as an elevator for the human female and her boyfriend. The humans had a space of their own in the room, a wide balcony about fifteen feet off the ground that was well equipped with human sized seating arrangements, various forms of entertainment, and even a kitchen, but Sam and Mikaela had always preferred to remain on the same level as their Autobot companions.

"Whatcha been up to?" Jazz inquired.

"Just got outta school," Sam answered, then paused. He gave Jazz a calculated look. "We ran into Arcee in the hall."

"Yeah?" Jazz encouraged, wondering where the boy was going with such information.

"Yeah, she was too busy to talk," Sam went on, "but she said she was gonna definitely hit the rec room later. Said she needed to unwind."

Jazz was rather miffed. Why was he being told this? And why was Sam giving him that expectant look?

"Well, this is the place to do it," Jazz said uncertainly, not sure how to respond.

"Yeah, she looked really tense, too," Mikaela added, nodding emphatically, giving Jazz that same look, that same wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised look that Sam was giving him. "Maybe if she had someone here to, you know… help her loosen up…"

The gears finally clicked into place. Jazz nearly laughed aloud as they did. Were they actually trying to – oh, what was the human term – hook him up?

"Dunno if I should be the one t' do that," Jazz snorted. "Wouldn' wanna have an angry Bee flitting o'er my head."

"What!" Sam looked up at his guardian in genuine surprise. "Bee, you never told me you liked Arcee!"

Bumblebee was looking distinctly flustered, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists, shifting in his seat, and glancing about the room as though to make sure no one else was around to hear the comment, namely one very attractive pink femme.

"I – it's not –" Bee stammered. "It's… just not something that ever came up in conversation."

"Lame, Bee," Jazz chided with a chuckle, taking a drink of his nearly forgotten energon. He then set it aside, settling himself into a more comfortable position, looking over the pair of humans. "Bee an' Arcee are already together. Had a relationship back on Cybertron."

"Jazz!" Bee exclaimed. "We did not!"

"Yes they did," Jazz insisted. "They was always goofin' off together, rubbin' foreplates, sendin' each other private comm messages. I wouldn'a been surprised to hear they was interfac –"

"JAZZ!" Bee interjected loudly. He was really flustered now. Optics wide in embarrassed outrage, he insisted, "We were just really, really good friends! I don't even know if she likes me back!"

"So you do like her," Jazz said cheekily. Bee merely made a distressed squeak and buried his faceplates in his hands.

"Okay, you are _so_ not getting away with not telling us this," Sam scolded, waggling a finger at Bumblebee. "But we have an agenda right now."

"Right," Mikaela added crisply. "Jazz."

"Mikaela," Jazz mimicked in the same business-like tone, grinning widely. "What about me?"

"You need a girlfriend," Sam said matter-of-factly. "You're way too cool to not have a significant other."

"Arcee's taken," Mikaela said, ticking off the femme on a finger. "What about Firestar? She's cute, spunky – you're a lot alike."

"She's a little too energetic," Sam cut in. "Added with Jazz? How about Moonracer? She's really nice."

"Um… guys," Bee said gently. "Jazz is… he, um –" He froze, staring at a spot over Jazz's shoulder. "Oh, Primus."

Jazz turned to see what Bee was staring at and grinned to see Prowl, fresh off his patrol, walk into the rec room. Spotting Jazz, the police cruiser walked over to stand behind him.

"Prowler, yer sense o' timin' is impeccable," Jazz chortled merrily. "Maybe you can help settle a li'l dispute. Who you think is cuter, Firestar or Moonracer?"

Prowl frowned faintly at the unexpected question. "Why do you ask?"

"'Cuz Sam an' Micky here are tryin' to set me up," Jazz said, grinning widely, "an' they dunno which o' the gals I should go out with."

Prowl's frown immediately deepened into a dark scowl.

"How considerate of them," he snarled, baring his dentalplates. "Why not just 'go out' with Elita One or Chromia? I'm sure Ironhide or Prime wouldn't mind sharing."

Sam and Mikaela sported identical looks of shock and apprehension. They had never seen the tactician display much of any emotion, let alone the outright hostility he was so emphatically expressing. Jazz, beneath his amusement at his mate's behavior, felt a bit sorry for the poor, unsuspecting humans.

"Well, I feel the sudden need t' go fer a drive!" Jazz said brightly, popping up from his seat. "Care t' come with, Prowler?"

"Indeed," the black and white growled, still glaring fiercely down at the two humans.

Jazz, an undeniable bounce to his step, headed for the door of the rec room. Prowl was quick to catch up to him, and even quicker to wrap a possessive arm about his waist. Out of the corner of his visor, he could see Prowl turning his helm to once more glare at the humans behind them. He could not see, of course, the looks on their faces, but he could imagine, as he could imagine the looks that would follow as Bumblebee explained to them about Cybertronian relationships.


	13. Infidelity

Title: Infidelity  
Rating: PG  
Universe: Animated  
Warnings: boys looking at dirty magazines  
Summary: Prowl takes offence to Jazz's bad habits.  
Notes: Inspiration from this came from listening to some Britney Spears. I guess it's because she's such a, um... promiscuous female. (Doesn't make me like her music any less, though. 0_0 DON'T JUDGE ME!)

* * *

"Oh, look at _that_ one."

"Mmm, love that aft."

Prowl, on his way to his room after running a particularly grueling patrol (Curse those human teenagers! Didn't they realize he wasn't with the Detroit police? It would take forever to get all that egg off…), paused when he heard a pair of hushed voices coming from what Bumblebee kept referring to as the living room. Curiosity overcoming his desire to immediately wash up, he changed course. Out of sheer habit of simply observing his surroundings before placing himself directly in them, he stopped at the doorway and looked into the room.

Bumblebee and Jazz were seated on the large concrete sofa, heads inches apart as they both hovered over something between them. It must have been quite enthralling, for they didn't notice the ninjabot standing just a few feet away.

"Such a beauty," Bumblebee muttered softly under his breath, fingering the page of the magazine lovingly. "Wouldn't mind getting under that plating."

"Check out that rack and pinon," Jazz commented, tilting his head to get a better look at the picture. "Man, talk about a smooth _ride_…"

Bee snickered. "Oh, all these babies are just prime stuff. They just scream ''Face me with your optics'."

"Who am I to deny?" Jazz smirked. "Jus' a thing o' beauty."

"Turn it to the middle," Bumblebee said eagerly. "They always have a big fold-out."

Jazz complied, flipping pages fervently until he came to the center fold. As if wanting to show itself off, the picture, the width of three normal pages, fell open. Jazz gave a small moan of appreciation.

"The Lamborghini Reventon," Bumblebee murmured with revered awe. "A classic beauty, ain't she?"

"She's gorgeous," Jazz said breathlessly. "Man, what I wouldn't give to –"

"_Jazz!"_

The Elite Guard flinched at the absolutely livid sound of Prowl's voice behind him. The black and gold cyber-ninja had crept up behind him and Jazz, so distracted by the magazine in his servo, had been caught in the act. The black and white sports car wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor. Or at least to run away very quickly. Instead, he forced himself to turn and face his angry mate.

"H-hey there, baby," Jazz stammered, a wavering, nervous smile on his faceplates. "What's up?"

Prowl did not respond, save to cross his arms over his chest and _glare._

"Now baby, look," Jazz tried placatingly. "I… I really wasn't – I mean, this… this is Bumblebee's!"

As if the object was on fire, he flung the car magazine into the startled faceplates of the yellow bot beside him. It did nothing to diminish the intensity of Prowl's deactivation stare. If anything, his scowl deepened. He continued to say nothing. Jazz was growing desperately distressed.

"Baby, please!" he begged, turning to fully face his mate, kneeling on the couch. "I'm – I'm really sorry, I –"

He was reaching out to Prowl, making a motion as if to grab one of his servos. The dark ninjabot was having none of it and turned on his heel and stomped off to his quarters. Jazz was quick to scramble over the back of the couch and follow in his angry footsteps, repeatedly apologizing as he went. His voice faded as he and his still silent mate weaved their way through the base. There came a loud slam of a door being shut – most likely in Jazz's faceplates – but the sparkfelt apologies still came.

"Man, is that guy _whipped_," Bumblebee muttered to himself, stretching out on the now vacant couch and flipping open his magazine again, glad for once that he was single.


	14. Restless

Title: Restless  
Rating: BEWARE! NC-17  
Universe: G1  
Warnings: two male robots havin' SECKZ, plug'n'play style  
Summary: Jazz can't recharge and is keeping Prowl up. Being the smart bot he is, Prowl comes up with a solution to remedy such.  
Notes: I'm still getting used to writing giant robot sex, so bear with me.

* * *

Prowl and Jazz, after so many vorns of teasing banter, subtle advances, and shameless flirting, had finally taken the plunge and started up a relationship. It was a shy, nervous thing at first, for a while not extending much beyond their usual habits of simply spending time together. It slowly but surely evolved – hands would be held while walking together, chaste kisses exchanged when they parted ways, short snuggle sessions indulged in on the couch in the rec room. It was a while before they actually dared to go as far as interface, something that surprised and confused others but made perfect sense to them. (Prowl was a private mech, even with those he cared for, and Jazz, Special Ops training always on the CPU, was ever cautious to let others in.)

And now, vorns after their first tentative steps as an official couple had been taken, they were making yet another momentous stride in their status as mates – they were moving in together.

It was an unexpectedly strenuous process. As neither of their quarters were very large – big enough to accommodate one mech, but certainly not two – they had been issued an entirely new living space by Optimus. Each had to clear out their old room and transfer belongings to the new unit. It was an easy enough task for Prowl – he lived a very austere life and had not an over-abundance of personal items – but gathering together all of Jazz's things had been quite a chore. The mech had a thing for knickknacks. And the only thing more tedious than packing each and every individual souvenir and trinket away had been _un_packing them and trying to find a suitable location for each in their new shared quarters. It had been a long and tiring day indeed, and Prowl was relieved that it was finally time for them to retire.

"Night, Prowler," Jazz smiled, leaning over to kiss his beloved before settling himself down on their berth.

"Good night," Prowl responded, powering down his optics and beginning his recharge subroutines. He was nearly off-line when he was disturbed by the sudden noise of Jazz moving. He on-lined his optics again, but saw that his mate had merely shifted to lay his other side. Once more, he off-lined his optics and settled down for recharge. Again, Jazz shifted his position. Prowl kept his optics off this time.

The room was quiet.

Then Jazz moved again.

And again.

And again.

And _again._

"Would you just lie _still_?" Prowl ordered irately, rebooting his optics to glare at the saboteur.

"Sorry," Jazz said sheepishly, shifting once more, this time to turn and face his grumpy mate. "I always take a while to settle down."

"Always?" Prowl queried warily.

"Mmm, most orns," Jazz confirmed. "'Less I'm really worn out. Then I just zonk."

"Really." A musing tone had replaced the one of trepidation. A calculating and deliberate hand came up to stroke ever so gently at Jazz's hip plating. "And just when are you worn out enough to simply 'zonk'?"

"After missions, mostly," Jazz shrugged. "Or orns when you bury me in an aft-load of reports. Or after we 'face."

Just what he wanted to hear. With a devious smirk, caressing fingers were suddenly wedging themselves into gaps in Jazz's armor and toying with the wiring beneath.

Jazz gave a strangled gasp at the sudden stimulation. He barely had time to throw Prowl a startled glance before the tactician flipped him onto his back and straddled his hips. White hands set to work immediately, caressing sides and stroking hidden wires and cables, wringing delightful little moans and whimpers from the mech beneath him. Roguish smirk growing into a feral grin, Prowl bent down to nuzzle at Jazz's neck, then bite down on the tubing there. The smaller black and white gave a sharp cry at the mixture of pain and pleasure, his cooling fans kicking on.

"So delicious," Prowl murmured, running his glossa along the length of a neck cable, tasting his mate. Dentalplates then nipped down the same length. Jazz gave a needy whine.

Black hands came up to grip the sides of Prowl's helm, forcing him away from Jazz's neck and to his mouth. Eager glossas tangled together, hungrily stroking and caressing. Prowl indulged his mate in his demand for a moment before pulling away – Jazz made a distressed sound – and moving on to sensitive headlights. He peppered one in hot, open-mouthed kisses, gently cupping the other in one hand. Jazz moaned, spinal struts arching up into him, into the touches.

Quivering hands came up to grip Prowl's shoulders for a brief moment before they attacked his doorwings. The tactician stiffened, grip tightening on Jazz's headlight, a soft gasp escaping his vents. Jazz continued to stroke and grope with one hand, the other creeping towards the joint where they met his chassis. He never made it to the hyper-sensitive spot, for Prowl suddenly seized him by the wrists and slammed them to the berth above his head.

"You're mine tonight," he growled, leaning forward until their faceplates were an inch apart. He nipped at Jazz's lower lip component. "You are going to be a good little mech and just lie back and take it."

The low, feral tone to Prowl's voice made Jazz shiver and keen in anticipation. He arched again, grinding their chassis together in encouragement, encouragement Prowl readily responded to. His mouth went back to lavishing attention to Jazz's headlights, glossa swirling about the cool glass. One hand left its hold on Jazz's wrist and went to a transformation seam in the smaller mech's side, wringing another shudder of ecstasy from him. Despite his orders to remain still, Jazz's freed hand went to Prowl's chevron, fingers running along the broad flat of the sensitive appendage.

In a movement too fast for the saboteur to register in his lustful haze, Prowl whipped out a pair of energy cuffs from subspace and snapped them around the wrist of the errant hand. Jerking it back above his head, Prowl completed the connection with the wrist he still held.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," Prowl said smoothly, voice dropping an octave. One hand still held his mate's now bound hands, the other went back to fingering the seam in his side. "You are not to move." White fingers disappeared in the seam. "You are to simply _lie back –_" They found a bundle of cables. "—and _take it."_ They gave a twist that was just shy of harsh and had Jazz screaming in ecstasy. He waited until the cries calmed to pleasured whimpers before he spoke again.

"Do we understand one another now?" he inquired genially, voice still dangerously low.

"Mmmnh, Prowl," Jazz croaked, vocalizer crackling with static. Prowl gave another sharp twist to the cables at his fingertips. Jazz screamed again, writhing in Prowl's hold.

"Do you understand?" Prowl repeated, pressing a kiss to his beloved's audio, enjoying the little moans that came with each exhale of hot air. Apparently beyond able to speak, he felt Jazz nod fervently.

"Good," Prowl murmured, kissing his audio again before trailing his lip components upwards to tend to black sensory horns. His glossa flicked out to lick the stubby appendage, and he reveled at how hot the plating was. His mate was already _burning._ Knowing this, he did not linger on the horn for long, suckling it for just a moment, the hand not still buried in Jazz's side coming down to stroke the other sensitive appendage. Jazz moaned and his engine gave a sharp rev, but Prowl was pleased to see that he dutifully kept his bound hands where he left them above his head.

His mouth left the sensory horn to come down and pepper Jazz's faceplates with kisses.

"Retract your visor," he commanded, and Jazz acquiesced immediately, drawing it up with a soft whir.

Prowl could not contain the groan of arousal at the sight of his mate's unhidden optics, looking up at him with such longing, such lust. Hands abandoning their posts, he cupped his beloved's faceplates and kissed him, long and hard. His glossa probed at Jazz's lip components, which parted immediately, letting Prowl in, allowing him to go over the contours of his mouth, terrain that had become so familiar over the past few vorns.

"I love you," he breathed as they parted, cooling fans working at a furious pace to cool his rapidly heating body.

"Love you," Jazz repeated with a moan, intakes gasping for air, engine revving furiously.

Prowl, despite his ever-increasing state of arousal, felt like indulging himself further. Shifting off of his mate's hips – though not without grinding their pelvic plating together first, earning himself another moan from his partner – he moved himself down Jazz's chassis, kissing every inch of him as he went, until at last his faceplates were even with Jazz's abdominal plating, body resting between his lover's legs.

"Open for me," he moaned, kissing along the edges of Jazz's interface panel.

"Prowl…" Jazz whimpered, hips bucking against his chestplates. Prowl rested more of his weight on the smaller mech, holding him down.

"Open," he said again, glossa running along the almost invisible seams he had just been kissing.

Whether simply following his mate's command or unable to control his body any longer, Jazz's interface panel gave a soft _click!_ that was barely heard over racing engines and cooling fans and retracted. Prowl propped his weight up on one elbow, leaving a hand free to come forth and gently – oh so gently – uncoil Jazz's interface cable. The mech whimpered and writhed against his mate at the sensuous touch. Prowl – slowly, tantalizingly – brought the end of the cable to his lip components and let his glossa flick over the tip of the plug.

Jazz gave an almighty shriek, bucking and thrashing against Prowl's weight, very nearly throwing him off. Prowl forced him to stay down, waiting until he was lying still – well, as still as he could be, trembling as he was – before licking the plug again. Another great cry, one that escalated as Prowl put the whole plug in his mouth and _sucked._

"Prowl!" he screamed, back arching violently, lifting his upper body off the berth.

Prowl switched tactics, removing the cord from his mouth and going instead to Jazz's waiting port. He ran his glossa around the rim, delighting in the little sparks of static electricity that crackled between his mouth and the port. He delved his glossa into the port, receiving a delicious little shock. Jazz sobbed incoherently, forgetting Prowl's rule entirely and bringing his bound hands to grip the back of his lover's helm.

"Prowl, please!" he begged. "I'm gonna – nngh! Please, I want – want you – UHN! Please! C-c-con – AH!"

Fortunately, Prowl knew just what his beloved mate was pleading for him to do. Moving quickly, knowing how close he was to overload, Prowl retracted his interface panel. He seized Jazz's cable and rammed it into his port. He was instantly barraged by a wave of emotion and pent up energy, one that did not stop. Reeling, Prowl fumbled for his own cord and somehow managed to snap it into Jazz's waiting port, finishing the connection between them.

As their minds and bodies became one, Prowl and Jazz cried out simultaneously. Prowl, unable to support himself under the overwhelming flow of data and emotion, collapsed atop his mate, clinging to him desperately, burying his faceplates in his neck. He bit down on a cable, trying to muffle his cries of ecstasy. Jazz didn't care and shouted his pleasure to the room.

It did not take long, after having been so thoroughly worked over by Prowl, for Jazz to reach overload. Stiffening in Prowl's hold, cries reaching a crescendo, the surge of energy washed through him, the backlash of such pounding through the hard link he shared with Prowl, sending him into an overload of his own. A pair of engines roared, a pair of vocalizers screamed, and, after what seemed like a blissful eternity later, a pair of lovers collapsed against the berth, entirely sated.

They remained motionless for a while, all energy spent in a CPU-blowing overload. After a moment or two of letting his systems regulate, Prowl found the ability to control his limbs once more, and he rolled off of his mate. With fumbling hands, he disconnected their interface cables, then removed the energy cuffs, letting them slip from his exhausted fingers to the floor.

"Nngh, Prowl," Jazz moaned hoarsely, voice thick with static. He tried to roll closer to his mate, arms limply reaching out for him, but he was unable to move. Prowl did it for him, scooting closer until their still-heated frames were gently pressed together, wrapping his arms around his beloved mate. No sooner had he done this than Jazz fell off-line and into recharge.

Amid the euphoric afterglow, Prowl felt a smug sense of accomplishment. One completely zonked mate – check.

"Although I do believe we're going to have to find a different solution," Prowl commented off-handedly to his unaware mate before slipping into recharge himself, "because I highly doubt I am going to have the energy to do _that _every night…"


	15. Love You More

Title: Love You More  
Rating: PG  
Universe: G1  
Warnings: mech-on-mech kissy goodness and mentions of scandalous office activities  
Summary: It was just another one of Jazz's countless quirks, just another reminder as to why Prowl loved him.  
Notes: Saying "I love you more" without an initiative comparison is actually a long-standing custom my bestie and I have. I just saw her tonight for the first time since Christmas – she's a few state lines away now, attending BYU Idaho – and it was reinstated when we said goodbye. (Seriously, if people could overhear us sometimes, they'd think we were a couple of lesbians. XD)

* * *

Jazz had merely stopped by Prowl's office to drop off a pile of datapads that needed to be signed, but quick 'hello's had turned into slightly longer 'how are you's and even more lengthy 'feel like slag's and 'rather tense's. Somewhere along the conversation, the saboteur had ended up behind his mate's chair, black hands working the tension out of Prowl's aching neck cables. The tactician continued to work as Jazz's talented fingers soothed away his discomfort, mumbling half-sparked responses to the chatter his bonded was upholding, not really paying attention until a soft mag pulse ran along his neck cables.

"Oh, please don't do that again," Prowl whined.

"Why not?" Jazz inquired, hands pausing their administrations. "Don't feel good?"

"On the contrary," Prowl said.

He could practically feel the mischievous grin form on his lover's faceplates, their bond betraying only the barest hint of amusement. Hands rested flat against the base of his neck and another wave of magnetism, this one a bit stronger than the first, pulsed through Prowl's cables and down into his circuitry. The Datsun made a small noise of appreciation.

"If you keep that up, I'm going to get absolutely no work done," he objected, though his tone was far from complaining. He was becoming too relaxed to really scold his mate.

"Sounds like a plan ta me," Jazz chuckled, leaning down and nuzzling his bonded's audio with his cheek and nose plates, hands smoothing from his mate's neck cables to his shoulders, then jumping to his sensitive doorwings. "'S been a while since we christened yer desk anyway. Or yer chair, fer that matter."

"It's been four days, Jazz," Prowl commented dryly. "For _either_ piece of abused furniture."

"Really?" Jazz grinned against the side of Prowl's helm, pressing a soft kiss to it. "Feels longer'n that." He leaned further forward, one hand guiding his mate's chevroned helm around so that he could unite their lip components in a chaste kiss. Prowl hummed in contentment, parting his mouthplates slightly to allow his insatiable partner to deepen the connection, something the smaller black and white complied to all too readily. They indulged in the sweetness of one another for a good long moment before concurrently pulling away.

"Love you more," Jazz drawled, smiling as he brought their foreplates together.

"More than what?" Prowl inquired, pulling back to give his mate a curious look.

"More'n you love me," Jazz said simply, as if it were obvious. Prowl quirked an optic ridge, one corner of his mouth twitching in the threat of a smile.

"Y'know how when you say 'I love you' I always say 'I love you more'?" Jazz queried. "I was jus' skippin' a step."

"Very time efficient of you," Prowl quipped, lip components twisting into a half smile. "Now if only you could apply that same sense of efficiency to your mission reports."

"One step at a time, lover," Jazz snorted, straightening back up. He rested his hands on Prowl's shoulders, giving them a light squeeze as he said, "I'll let ya get back ta work. Catch ya later."

And with that, he walked back around his mate's desk and toward the door. Prowl waited until he was stepping over the threshold to call out to him.

"Jazz?"

"Hm?" The saboteur turned, one hand resting on the door frame.

"I love you more," Prowl said, mouthplates still set in that amused, affectionate smile. Jazz grinned broadly back.

"Not possible," he said simply, continuing on his way, door swishing shut behind him.

Prowl chuckled quietly to himself as he once more picked up his datapad and went back to work, feeling, as he always did after seeing his beloved, quite relaxed and contentedly happy.


	16. Attention Deficit Disorder

Title: Attention Deficit Disorder  
Rating: G  
Universe: G1  
Warnings: see title  
Summary: Jazz was one of the brightest, cleverest, most ingenious CPUs the Autobot army had to offer. One would have been hard pressed to realize this when faced with the enigma that was his reports.  
Notes: Come on. Like Jazz _wouldn't_ do something like this.

* * *

Signing off yet another finished report, Prowl set the datapad in his hand on top of his ever-growing pile of completed work. He released a tired sigh from his vents, free hand coming up to rub at tense neck cables. It had been a very long day, what with Sideswipe wreaking havoc on the _Ark_ – he had committed no less than a dozen pranks since Prowl's shift started, three of them leaving rather large messes that were yet to be cleaned up and one sending Cliffjumper to the Med Bay to have a sizable dent removed from his aft. Thankfully, his shift was coming to an end, and for once, he was going to acknowledge that fact and leave the rest of his work for tomorrow. He had time to squeeze in a few more reports, though. His hand left his neck cables and reached for the next waiting datapad.

_Special Operations Agent Autobot Jazz reporting compl –_

Prowl's CPU stuttered. Jazz's report.

Oh, Primus above, he just didn't have the energy for this right now!

He was very tempted to turn off the display screen and just slip the datapad under the bottom of his "To Do" pile, but he knew he would never be able to recharge knowing it was sitting here, waiting for him. So, with another weary sigh, he read on.

_Special Operations Agent Autobot Jazz reporting completion of most recent mission, assigned by Optimus Prime. Mission goal: hack Decepticon computer files and obtain plans and/or information pertaining to Megatron's… oh slag, what did OP call it? Some fancy term for "New Big Secret Weapon". He said it better. Much more subtle. _

Prowl briefly shuttered his optics, wondering how a mech as brilliant as Jazz couldn't do something as simple as retain the exact wording of his mission goals. He resisted groaning at the bad turn the report had already taken, knowing it would only get worse from there on. It was a good thing Jazz was relatively succinct in writing his reports.

_Semantics aside, got the job done. Infiltration of Decepticon base was entirely successful. Decepticon casualties: zero. Decepticon injuries: one guardsmech with a Pit of a dent to the helm. (he'll be feelin that when he comes to next year, ha!) Aside from the guard, not a spark saw me the hole time. Cuz the Jazz-man is just that good. ;p_

Prowl pondered on the last two characters for a good long while. They appeared to be intentional, but just what they were supposed to mean or represent was far beyond Prowl's comprehension. Shaking his head, forcing his logic chips to stop rationalizing the ostensible typo, he moved on.

_Y'know, I was a little thrown off at first. Why'd they only put one gard there? Its in the rulebook that yer supposed to have two. Even if it ain't, its just common sense. Duh! Shouldn't complain, tho. Just made my job all that much more easier. _

Prowl wondered whether it would be more painful to teach Jazz how to write a proper report or just suffer through them as they were. There couldn't be _that_ much to teach, could there? Format, spelling, grammar, wording, and, of course, how to _stay on topic…_

No. Perhaps it was easier to simply muddle through them.

_Point of infiltration was a ventalation duct opened from within and left unlocked by Special Operations Agent Autobot Mirage on previous mission. Thee months ago, I think? And the Cons STILL havn't noticed it. Pfft. Amatures. _

Just what in Primus's good name was "pfft" supposed to mean? Was it anything similar to semicolon-P? Prowl did not linger on potential definitions this time, wanting to simply reach the end of this torment and go to his quarters.

_Duct led to some random hall, somewhere round the back of base. Wasn't much back there – prolly why there was only one guard wanderin around. Computer terminal sought out and located roughly 300 feet from point of infiltration. Hacked inna their main hub from there. Took a lil while, and I got zapped a good one by some new and nasty defense mechanism – prolly in Med bay right now while your reading this gettin that taken care of, really singed some circuts good – but hack was successful._

Even the knowledge that his friend had sustained an injury could not qualm Prowl's ever rising agitation. Had Jazz been damaged so greatly that he could not run a simple spell checker over his reports?

_Files regarding new Decepticon weapon were obtained, including blueprints, list of nesessary building components, and primary purpose. Files were downloaded and duplicated. Datachip containing said info was sent to the Boss-Bot along with my report for him._

Prowl wished Optimus the best of luck in deciphering that report. As SIC, Prowl was the one who usually handled all the paperwork. Optimus read only the reports that were of the utmost importance, so the Prime had very little experience in translating the language of Jazz.

_I made double-sure that there weren't any traces they'd been hacked, tho a knocked out guard may give them a few hints that sumthing is up, wouldn't ya think? Still, I did the job right and cleaned up after myself before I hauled aft outta there. All in all, it was a piece of cake. I coulda pawned this off on Bee or someone and they woulda done just fine. _

Prowl wished Jazz had been blessed with this insight _before_ he'd completed the mission himself. Bumblebee's reports were never such a chore to read.

_Well, that's it. Missed you while I was gone. Hope you actually refueled without me there to remind you. Come visit me in Med Bay! I doubt the Hatchet's gonna let me out fore he runs a billion and one scans on me to make sure all I did get was a lil singed wiring from that zap thingy. Gonna be bored as Pit for the next couple of days._

_Jazz-man, signing off. _

With no little amount of relief, Prowl signed his name at the bottom of the report, signifying it had been read and recorded, and added it to the towering pile of his completed work. He checked his chronometer, sighing at the time. His shift still didn't end for another eight-point-two minutes, one-point-four of which his exhaustion battled against his strong sense of propriety. In the end, his exhaustion won and, for the first time in his entire career, he left his office before his shift was officially over.

Locking his office door behind him, Prowl started down the hall. He'd only gone a few steps before he stopped, Jazz's final words, still fresh in his CPU, giving him pause. He chewed them over for another four-tenths of a minute before he turned and began walking in the other direction, away from his quarters and towards the Med Bay.

After all, Jazz _did_ ask him to visit, and, despite the stress his dear friend often inflicted upon his logic-run CPU, he would have been lying were he to say he hadn't missed him as well.


	17. Just Missed

A/N: This has been sitting completed on my flash drive for quite some time now. I dared to post it on LJ labeled as a one-shot and received a barrage of reviews insisting upon a continuation. (Like this isn't crap-tastic enough as it is?) I seriously considered writing till this reached a Happily Ever After. Honestly. But the lack of inspiration has been haunting me. This file won't stop STARING at me, and I can't take its demanding gaze any more. I must exorcize this demon and post it. No happy ending here.

DEAL WITH IT.

Enjoy my suckage. I so fail at angst.

* * *

Prowl was in his office, as he so frequently was, on what the humans called New Year's Eve. Spike had informed the Autobots that it was a special night, a time of celebration for humans, and parties were commonly held in its honor. People would gather and reminisce about the year past and welcome the start of a new one, setting personal goals and changes they wanted to see accomplished. Jazz, being Jazz, had been sold on the word "party" and had insisted upon the _Ark_ hosting one. And rare were the instances when Jazz could not charm what he wanted out of his superiors.

And so, as the party raged on in the rec room, Prowl was hiding away in his office, content to sit in silence and catch up on reports.

Sideswipe, however, seemed to think he needed a distraction.

"_Hey cop-bot,"_ the red twin drawled over his comm link, words a bit slurred. _"Why don't you come on down to the rec room?"_

"No, thank you, Sideswipe," Prowl responded as evenly as he could. "I, unlike some, do not feel the need to – oh, how did you so eloquently put it earlier? – 'get it on'. I'll remain here."

"_No, I really think you should come down here," _Sideswipe insisted.

"And why is that, Sideswipe?" Prowl inquired irately, very close to merely cutting off the communication.

"'_Cuz Jazz is causing a ruckus." _

That gave the tactician pause. If Sideswipe – mischief-causing, rule-breaking, I'll-prank-anyone-and-anything Sideswipe – was taken enough by someone's behavior to actually report them as being a problem, the behavior would have to be very bad indeed. And the fact that it was _Jazz_ that was causing the mayhem piqued Prowl's curiosity. Jazz, so laid back and easy-going, was creating enough trouble to merit a call for an intervention?

"I'm on my way," Prowl said curtly before shutting off the link. Setting down the datapad in his hand, he rose from his chair and headed out the door and for the rec room.

He was still a good distance away when he heard – and felt – the deep thrum of music. His doorwings twitched as they picked up the vibrations it was causing. He would have to retrieve Jazz quickly; staying too long in the midst of such overwhelming noise would do a number on his overly sensitive systems.

Fortunately, it was revealed as he palmed open the door, he would not have to spend long searching for the saboteur, for Jazz had done a pretty good job of making himself obvious. He was in the middle of the room, dancing atop one of the tables, waving a cube of high-grade wildly in one hand, and shouting obscenities loud enough to be heard over the pulsing music. Most bots were giving him a wide berth, but little Bumblebee was trying to coax down the over-energized mech.

"'Bout time," a voice said behind him. Prowl turned to see Sideswipe, holding his own cube and grimacing at the spectacle that was Jazz.

"He's been going on like this for a while now," the warrior said, nodding at the saboteur. "He must've had a really bad day today or something, if one was to go off the stuff he's spouting."

"I'll take care of it," Prowl assured him, turning back around and making a beeline for Jazz.

"I've had 'nough've it, Bee!" he was saying loudly. "Frag Megatron an' 'is stupid slaggin' cause an' 'is stupid slaggin' 'Cons. Bunch of half-sparked, bit-brained glitches, the lot of 'em! They can go in'erface with a maint'nence drone fer all I care. I'm done with 'em!"

"Jazz," Prowl said loudly to gain his attention. He may as well not have spoken for all Jazz noticed.

"You tell Op'mus I quit," he told Bee solemnly, still doing an uncoordinated shuffle in time to the music. "You tell 'im I dun wanna fight no more. Tell him to go to –"

"Jazz!" Prowl repeated sharply. He grabbed Jazz's free hand and gave a small tug to guide him off the table, but even the gentle pull was too much for his equilibrium chip, which was no doubt compromised by the large amount of high-grade he had so obviously consumed. Jazz stumbled and fell off the table and into Prowl's chestplates. It was all Prowl could do to not stumble backwards as all the saboteur's weight was thrust upon him.

"Prowl!" Jazz exclaimed, as if surprised to see him. He threw an arm about his neck. "Prowl, you actually came! I _knew_ you weren' a total stick-in-the-slag!"

"Don't let me mislead your conceptions of me," Prowl said wryly. "I'm here for you, not the party."

It was, Prowl decided, perhaps the wrong thing to say, especially when Jazz was in such a state. And being in such a state, he took the statement entirely the wrong way. Leering up at him, arm about his neck tightening its hold, Jazz pressed his chassis flush against the tactician's.

"Why, Prowlie-bot," he crooned. "Didn' know ya cared 'bout li'l ol' me. How sweet."

Prowl resisted grimacing at the overpowering scent of high-grade that was emanating from the Third in Command. He wrestled the half-filled cube out of his unrelenting grasp with some difficulty.

"I think you've had enough, Jazz," he said, free hand moving to disengage the arm around his neck.

"Mmm, not yet, I haven'," Jazz slurred, and before he could be prevented from doing otherwise, he pulled Prowl's helm down to press their lips together in a kiss.

Prowl's CPU raced. Jazz was over-energized. His actions were compromised by all the high-grade. He didn't know what he was doing. He was _kissing_ him. He couldn't be held accountable. This was all just part of what an out-of-control Jazz did. He was thinking illogically. It wasn't really Jazz, it was the energon. It felt so slagging _good._

He stood rigid and immobile, too shocked to respond. He was dimly aware of the cube of high-grade slipping from his limp fingers and falling to the ground with a splash. There came a sound, a soft whimper, barely heard over the music that continued to blast around them. It took Prowl a moment to realize it had come from him. Unfortunately, Jazz had heard it as well and, instead of correctly identifying it as one of distress, he took it as encouragement and slipped his glossa between Prowl's slightly parted lips, giving Prowl a taste of the high-grade he'd been consuming.

That was enough to jerk Prowl out of his trance. With a rather undignified squeal, he grabbed Jazz by the shoulders and ripped him away from his lip components. The saboteur swayed in his grasp, looking rather put out.

"Whassa matter, Prowlie-bot?" he pouted, hands already creeping back up Prowl's chestplates to his neck and helm. Prowl caught the errant hands in his own, forcing them down to Jazz's sides and holding them there. His still racing CPU struggled to find something to say. Sideswipe, fortunately for his CPU but unfortunately for his pride, chose that moment to step in.

"Prowl!" he exclaimed in a phony tone of scandalization. "When you said you'd take care of him, I didn't think it entitled _that_."

"How come you never 'take care' of _us_ like that?" his twin demanded with a grin. "You always just throw us in the brig, sparing not so much as a comforting hug!"

"Doesn't seem fair, does it?" Sideswipe mused. "We get the cold shoulder when we act up, but Jazz gets snogged?"

"Enough, you two," Prowl ordered, glad that his vocalizer sounded steadier than he felt. "Jazz, let's go."

One hand firmly grasping the smaller bot by his arm, Prowl began to lead Jazz out of the rec room, becoming aware of all the stares their little… display had attracted. His faceplates heated in embarrassment, and he quickened their pace.

"Off to finish in private?" Sunstreaker called after them.

"I said enough!" Prowl growled over his shoulder, flush worsening.

And with that, the pair of black and whites left the room, the closing door cutting off most of the sounds of the party that still went on inside. Prowl led Jazz through the corridors, the shorter mech weaving slightly as he walked, despite the guiding hand that remained holding his upper arm. To both Prowl's relief and confusion, he was choosing to remain uncharacteristically silent. It was not until they reached the door of his quarters that he chose to speak up.

"I blew it, didn' I?" he said meekly, staring at his pedes.

"Anyone can get a little too over-energized," Prowl said, trying very hard not to let the emotions racing through him show in his voice. He typed in his override code and Jazz's door swished open. "I'm sure Bumblebee won't actually tell Optimus that you wish to resign. It was easy enough for him to see that –"

"'Snot what I meant," Jazz interrupted, sneaking a glance up at the tactician. "Meant I blew it with you."

Prowl's fuel pump skipped a beat. He quashed down the rising emotions with some difficulty as his CPU interpreted Jazz's comment as one of – but surely he couldn't be suggesting…?

"What do you mean?" he inquired quietly, a hint of desperation coloring his tone.

Jazz was once more staring at his pedes, as though ashamed to look Prowl in the optics.

"I like you," he said simply. "Like ya a lot. But I wasted th' chance t' tell ya. Yer just gonna think I kissed ya cuz I was over-energized. 'N if I say 'nything after t'night, yer just gonna think I'm yankin' yer chain."

Prowl's spark clenched in his chest. How long he had yearned to hear those words come from Jazz. How he craved for his affections for him to be countered. He so desperately wanted to believe what Jazz was saying, believe that his silent feelings were returned, but logic – and Jazz's own admission – held back his hopes. He was over-energized and, if his episode in the rec room before Prowl arrived was anything to go by, not thinking clearly. Did he really mean it?

"Anyways…" Jazz scuffed at the floor with a ped, then turned to walk through the open door of his quarters. "Night, Prowler."

Prowl dearly wanted to reach out and stop Jazz, to hold him back for just a moment longer, to tell him how he felt about him, how he'd always felt about him, to feel his lips against his own one more time…

But he simply stood there and watched Jazz cross the threshold to his quarters and close and lock the door, leaving him with tingling lips, the faint taste of high-grade in his mouth, and the miserable yet so familiar feeling of having just missed another chance.


End file.
